Remember Me
by CaughtOutInTheDark
Summary: When people die you grieve, remember and eventually do your best to move on. But when John Watson is gunned down and killed, Sherlock reacts in none of these ways. Instead, he... forgets. Eventual Johnlock. T for safety.
1. Death in the Alleyway

_**Chapter One  
**__Death in the Alleyway_

-.-

A gunshot.

John shouts, flails, falls.

He collapses onto the tarmac. Stills. Sherlock runs up, screams his name, crouches beside him. Turns him over. Sees the damage. Fatal. The street lights flicker above them, the only source of light in the narrow alleyway. In the gloom, pain is etched on John's face. He wheezes hard. He knows he doesn't have long. The detective clasps his hand, his face white, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

"John." The word pierces the silence pounding through his ears. It can't end like this. He and his blogger… they have so much more to see. So much more to do. Crimes to solve. Jokes to laugh at. _No._ _John won't die. He's too strong. He survived a war._ "John." And he realises he's pleading. Because up until this point, he has never imagined a life without John Watson.

And this is too real. Too soon._ Not now. Not when… Not John. No. Please, no…_

"Sher – Sherlock…" The wounded man is gasping, staring up at him, eyes wide. The crimson is staining his hands, but Sherlock doesn't notice, because the whole of his attention is focused on one man and those fateful words. "I… I c-can't…"

"No." He whispers the syllable over and over, shaking his head slowly. His mind seems incapable of thinking. His whole world is dying before his very eyes. _I can't… I can't…_

"P-Please… This… isn't y-your f-fault…"

But it is. They both know it. It was Sherlock's idea to hunt that killer on their own. Sherlock's idea to pursue him across London. Sherlock's idea to use John as bait… He squeezes John's fingers. Tears are in his eyes, threatening to snake down his cheeks. His vision blurs. The ground appears to be lurching violently. _I can't… I can't…_

"It is my fault! All of it! Don't leave me!" He can't control himself. He is a spectator, trapped in his own body, listening to himself plead. "You can't leave me! I need you… I've always needed you! J-John! N-No."

"Don't… worry…" John murmurs. He smiles at Sherlock with one final effort. And the look he gives conveys nothing but genuine untainted love. Sherlock bends over and kisses his friend's cheek lightly, hardly able to comprehend the whispered fragments. "What… I said… b-before..." Time freezes. They share a look. "I… I m-meant every word."

And with that, his eyes close and he goes limp in Sherlock's arms.

At rest.

Sherlock screams.

"JOHN!" He shakes his beloved army doctor. But John is dead. "NO! NO! NO!"

He drops the body and staggers to his feet. A dog is barking. People on the street opposite are singing in drunken stupors. Police sirens wail in the distance. A haze of noise, weaving around him. Hemming him in. Suffocating him. _I can't… I can't…_

Sherlock turns back. Sees John's body, crumpled beneath his feet. _He can't be… he… just a moment ago we… he said… he told me that he… _The blood is still spilling onto the concrete, the crimson liquid staining his flatmate's coat. _And I said… I was the same… and… and… and we… _John's face is ashen. Grey. He doesn't look like John. He looks like something Sherlock would find in the mortuary._ But… he isn't… he's my… how do I… I can't… I can't…_

_I can't breathe._

He sinks to his knees. Clutches a lifeless hand.

_He's gone._

Something snaps inside him. His heart feels as though it has been wrenched from his chest. He sways. Then, something in his mind clicks. And his eyes roll up and he plummets down and the last thing he remembers is…

_John._


	2. The Forgotten Flatmate

_**Chapter Two  
**__The Forgotten Flatmate_

-.-

The room swims into room. Sherlock blinks, disoriented. Whitewashed walls fill his vision and the reek of disinfectant intoxicates him. Hospital. He can hear sounds. Some, he knows, are in his head. There is a man shouting meaningless words deep inside his mind, but he doesn't know who it is, or why those cries are so desperate. In the real world, he listens to the faint beeping of medical machinery, hushed voices in the adjacent room, and soft weeping less than a metre away.

He blinks and his surroundings snap into clear focus.

Lestrade has pulled up a chair next to his bed and has his head in his hands, unaware that the detective is awake. He is crying – his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Sherlock can only stare at him weakly, in shock. He has never seen Lestrade lose control before. And he can't think of a single reason why he would now. The detective inspector wouldn't be crying over him. Because he just _wouldn't_. Someone else, then. His wife? But why would he come to visit Sherlock of all people?

Sherlock isn't prepared to wait for answers.

"Lestrade." His voice is weak and he sounds tired. Defeated. But he doesn't know why. "Stop snivelling. It's pointless."

Greg Lestrade looks up. His eyes are red and it looks like he hasn't slept for days. He doesn't bother wiping the tears away.

"You're awake." He croaks. "Sherlock… I'm so… so sorry."

"What?" Sherlock doesn't understand what is going on. The stranger shouting incomprehensibly in his head is making it hard for him to think straight. "Why are you…?" He winces. His head hurts. "Why are you apologising?" He finishes. Lestrade takes a breath, composing himself. He stares directly at the hospitalised man, his eyes pools of sorrow.

"It's John… He… You and him. We found you in that alleyway –"

"Wait." Sherlock interrupts. "Who's 'John'?" Lestrade blinks. He stares at Sherlock, unsure what to say. His mouth opens but the words refuse to come out. "Lestrade? I need to know. Was he your friend?" Lestrade still can't speak. Sherlock softens slightly. "So he was? And he's dead? I'm sorry about that. But why do you want to tell me this?"

"B-But…" Lestrade stammers. "It's… It's _John_. John Watson. How… How can…? Do you have concussion?"

"No." Sherlock chuckles, convinced that the whole conversation has been staged. But his friend is serious.

"What do you remember about last night, Sherlock?"

"I was on a case." Sherlock answered instantly. "I was chasing down one of the suspects – I can give you details of all that later. But then…" He frowns slightly, and then his face clears as memory floods back. "But he managed to escape in a car. And for some reason I blacked out. He probably gave me narcotics of some sort. I woke up. And…" He shrugs, as if to say 'and here I am'.

"But _John_." Lestrade repeats. Sherlock looks vaguely annoyed now, but the older man is insistent. "This is John I'm talking about. He's _dead_. Sherlock. There's no way you've forgotten a whole person, least of all him."

Sherlock reluctantly decides to play along, and a small smirk flits across his face.

"Well. Why was he so special anyway? He's just another body, surely."

Lestrade blanches.

"God. You're serious."

"Are you?"

"Sherlock. He's your… your…"

"Look, however you say I knew this person, it's 'was', not 'is'. You told me yourself. He's dead." Sherlock remarks bluntly. Lestrade nods wordlessly, unable to argue. The tears are back and he brushes them away. "Anyway," The black haired man continues briskly. "I'm intrigued about this man now. You can tell me all about him later on. In the meantime, I'm really _really _bored. I want a case."

He leans back idly on his pillow. Lestrade gets up and calls a doctor. They check Sherlock over, but there's no evidence of any brain damage, nothing to support the claim that he has never known a John Watson in his life.

Sherlock should be grieving right now.

Instead, he is… bored.

**WARNING: There will be major character death(s) in later chapters (... I realise that I've already killed John.. I feel evil)  
Thank you for taking the time to read!**


	3. Back Home Again

_**Chapter Three  
**__Back Home Again_

-.-

Later that same day, Sherlock sits propped up in his hospital bed, thinking. Lestrade has long gone. After that initial conversation, the detective inspector hasn't yet been able to look his friend in the eye. Mrs Hudson visits. Again, she brings up this 'John' person. Apparently, she tells him, whilst sobbing into a handkerchief, John Watson actually _lived _with him in 221B.

Of course, every instinct of Sherlock's screams out that this is wrong. He has occupied that flat for nearly eight years now and he would never share it with anybody. There must be some mistake, he reasons. Perhaps he is trapped in a vivid dream, or maybe this is all an elaborate hoax. His rational mind finds it hard to think of an alternative option. He has always trusted his judgement, memory, and logic. There is no way, he decides, that a John Watson has been a part of his life. Ever.

The time he spends in hospital is no longer than necessary. Doctors inform him that he was out cold for two days straight and admit that they are clueless as to the explanation behind it. He is discharged the day after waking up and gets a cab straight back to the flat, eager to finish unsolved cases. Pulling his key out, he turns the lock, opens the door. His landlady is out so he skips straight up the stairs and opens the door to the main room.

Sherlock stops.

His flat. He… His first reaction is utter confusion. Books he does not recognise are stacked neatly on a shelf. A gun he is not acquainted with lies at an angle on the table. And there is a faint smell of deodorant hanging in the air that Sherlock cannot identify.

For a moment, he frowns. Then, with sudden alertness, he goes to the table, picks up the gun, and begins searching his lodgings for the intruder. Nothing. But in one of the bedrooms – the one that isn't his – someone has placed all of their belongings. Almost as if they lived here. Sherlock texts Mycroft immediately.

_Someone's been in the flat. Come at once._

_~ SH_

While he waits, he finds that his hands are shaking. Holding the gun tightly, the detective walks back to the living room and looks around. Something is terribly wrong. A few of the possessions that don't belong to him are gathering dust, as though they have been there for weeks. Of course, this is impossible because _he _has been here in that time. No one else…

His eyes linger on the sofa where, neatly folded, a cream jumper is resting. He steps forward, as if in a trance, and gently picks it up. The woolly item of clothing unfurls and Sherlock stares down at it for a long time, then feels a strange wetness dripping down his cheeks, and puts one hand up to see what it is. Tears. Perplexed, he wipes them away. There is a terrible feeling in his chest, as if there is a hole growing in his heart.

And Sherlock feels uneasy.

Fingers trembling, he feels the soft material delicately. Then, unable to bear it for another second, he flings the garment onto the floor and turns his back, unexpectedly out of breath and dizzy. And the shouting in his head is back. He still can't make out the words but it is painful to hear.

He stumbles to his preferred armchair and sits heavily, knees drawn up, waiting for his older brother. He has never felt so vulnerable.


	4. Clearing the Mist

_**Chapter Four  
**__Clearing the Mist_

-.-

When his sibling enters, twenty minutes later, Sherlock is on all fours on the carpet, groaning and clutching his head. He looks up at his brother with pleading eyes – eyes that even Mycroft Holmes sees the pain in.

"Sherlock?" He asks slowly, walking over. "What is it? Did someone attack you?" But, even now, he can see that no stranger has been in the flat. There are no signs of a struggle. There is only the younger Holmes, and Mycroft can't tell what has happened.

"It… The voices…" Sherlock whispers. "I can hear… someone…"

"Have you been taking drugs?" Mycroft asks, frowning.

"No! No… It's… Ever since I woke up…"

"Right. Sit on the chair…" His older brother helps him to sit. Sherlock gazes at him mistrustfully, wincing, his hand still on his forehead. "What is it then? What can you hear?"

"Just…" Sherlock flinches at a sudden twinge. "I can't make it out. But… it sounds pretty desperate… A man's voice."

"I can phone for an ambulance if you want." Mycroft states. The indifference in his voice reminds Sherlock just how far apart they really are. He shakes his head. "Right, then. Can you explain why you believed that someone has been in the flat?"

Sherlock puckers his brow. "It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, look at all the possessions here that don't belong to me. Like…" He reaches out and picks an object at random from the coffee table. It happens to be John's mug. "How do you explain this…?" He trails off, transfixed by the item in his hand.

Mycroft's ice mask falls from his face and his expression morphs into one of pity.

"Sherlock…" He begins slowly. Gently.

His brother is still staring at the mug, lip trembling. He looks up.

"I have no connection to this mug." He says flatly. But his eyes are watering. "Mycroft… What's happening?"

"Lestrade told me about… the situation. When you woke up, you claimed not to know anyone by the name John Watson –"

"I don't –!"

"And you claimed not to remember anything about him whatsoever. So. I believe that you've… deleted him."

"I've…" Sherlock pales. "… Deleted a whole person? Is that even possible?"

"Apparently it is." Silence. "The voices in your head are inevitably the remnants of any memories you have left of the doctor."

"He's a doctor?"

"_Was _a retired army doctor, yes."

"Oh, of course." Throughout the conversation, Sherlock has still been hearing the ringing cries in his head. He does his best to ignore them. "So." He starts softly. "Why on Earth would I take a whole person out of my mind palace?"

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably.

"He was your friend…"

"I don't have _friends_." Sherlock sneers. A moment later he starts violently. "I've… I've heard that before."

Mycroft sighs quietly.

"If you want to know more about this, I'm not the best person to be talking to. Speak to Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. Or anyone else that comes to mind." Sherlock doesn't answer. "I need to get back to the office. If your headache gets worse, phone me."

He leaves without a word.

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	5. The Man He Once Knew

_**Chapter Five  
**__The Man He Once Knew_

-.-

Sherlock knows what he has to do immediately.

As soon as Mycroft is gone, he stands up, grabs his coat and rushes outside, hailing a cab. Fifteen minutes later, he is standing in St Bart's mortuary. Molly is with him, holding back tears. She stands to one side after wheeling out the zipped up body and watches the detective from a safe distance. _How could he forget? John meant so much to him…_

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, readying himself. He is not sure what to expect, not sure what effect the actual body might have on him. Whoever John Watson was, he must have been relatively important in his life. The very idea scares him. Because he knows himself well enough to understand that he never gets attached to anything. His closest friend is the skull!

He can feel Molly staring at him and realises that he has been standing motionless for nearly half a minute. _Now or never_… He unzips the bag enough to expose the face of the man inside.

His first impression is: _Well. He's pretty average._ There is nothing special or remarkable to be noted. _This is the man I once knew? _He looks at Molly, wanting to make sure. She nods imperceptibly and he turns back to the slab. His hand unconsciously reaches out and sweeps the dead man's fringe back to the left side, how it is meant to be… and pulls away sharply, baffled. He shakes his head and then looks properly again.

He… There is something aesthetically pleasing about John Watson. In life, his skin would have had a certain degree more colour to it and Sherlock can almost imagine him walking around, talking, laughing… No. He can't remember. The corpse before him is just a corpse. There is no life. No personal history attached to it. Nothing.

"Why would I forget?" He murmurs to himself.

"Um…" Molly, who has stood unnoticed, tries to answer. "He was your friend–"

"Yes, but I wouldn't forget a whole _person_." Sherlock insists. Molly is looking at him with concern, and it takes a moment for him to realise that he is crying silently again. He wipes his eyes, embarrassed. "I don't even know what's happening to me –" His voice cracks and he stops, shaking.

"Maybe… Well, he meant a lot to you. Especially during… um, 'The Fall'."

"But I don't remember!"

"Do you remember what happened that day?" Molly asks quietly. It is a topic that she has never broached before, but she wants to know how Sherlock can answer this without John being involved.

"I was on the run from the police."He responds at once. "I asked you for assistance, came up with a plan. And then… then I met Moriarty on the roof of St Bart's. We spoke… um… Then I…" Sherlock falters, before continuing confidently. "Then he shot himself. There was no reason for me to jump anymore –"

"Was there a reason in the first place?"

"It was a game, Molly. We both knew that… that… well… I mean, he was threatening to kill Mrs Hudson and Lestrade…" He finishes uselessly. "But anyway, that's not important. I stood on the roof and I realised that by faking my death I would be a free man. I would be able to hunt the rest of Moriarty's gang and also escape from London for a time. So I did it. You know the rest."

Molly bites her lip.

"That's… That's, well, it's… But did you enjoy the three years away from home?"

"Of course."

"No." Sherlock looks confused at the uncharacteristic directness in her voice. "You didn't like it. You… You told me once, when you were in hiding… You told me that you missed him. And you… you seemed quite upset and you wanted to – to return as soon as you could, but you couldn't and…"

"I don't remember!" He insists loudly, startling her. "I..." He stops, quietens. "I need to go."

He leaves the morgue without a further glance at either Molly or John's body.

The door slams behind him.

**Hello! I am literally buzzing from yesterday. That's the first time I've seen Benedict and Martin for real and I'm still in shock...  
Also, I know that Sherlock is kind of OOC.. Sorry about that. I'm not exactly sure how he would react in this situation.**


	6. The First Dream

_**Chapter Six  
**__The First Dream_

-.-

Sherlock spends the rest of the day cooped up in his bedroom, on his laptop. Mrs Hudson comes upstairs, but he shoos her away, insisting that he is fine and busy with a case. In actual fact, his head is throbbing and he feels some kind of strange emotion that he cannot pin down.

It is dark when he finally decides to go to bed. Sleep might clear his mind. If not, tomorrow he can always take some of the coke. There are a lot of questions unanswered in his head. Certain parts of his life are blurred. For instance, he can't remember how he managed to end up affording the flat in the first place. He can't remember certain parts of almost all the cases he has been involved in over the course of seven years. _Is that how long I knew him? _He thinks. _And is that how we met? Looking at this apartment together? _

He wonders, as he pulls the covers up, exactly how well he had known this man. Dr Watson had slept in a different bedroom, so they probably hadn't been in that kind of relationship. But what kind of man would put up with him and his experiments and violin playing and gun firing habit for seven whole years? He wonders if he will ever remember, or if he will spend the rest of his life not caring about, but intrigued by, the mysterious identity of his forgotten flatmate.

_Who were you, John Watson…?_

His eyes grow heavy and the shouting in his head fades as his thoughts swirl into black…

-.-

"_Sherlock… Sherlock…" He is standing, alone, in an alleyway – the same alleyway that he collapsed in – and it is late at night. The only source of light comes from a lamp post up ahead, but it is dim and he has to strain his eyes to make out even basic shapes. "Hello?" The sound reverberates. A bird screeches. He turns, but he can barely see two feet in front of him. And then he feels something by his side. "Sherlock…" It is a voice carried on the wind. He spins around, heart in his mouth, but no one is there. "Sherlock…" Now he is scared. He knows that there is something important that he needs to do, but he can't remember what it is. "Who are you?" His voice is a whisper. "Sherlock…" "I can't…" And then there is a terrible pain in his head. _

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't –

_And someone is screaming in his ear that 'it's not okay' over and over again and he can't see a thing and he begins to run but he is too slow and something is coming up behind him and he trips and falls and is falling, falling, falling…_

-.-

Sherlock wakes with a cry and falls off the bed onto the floor. He staggers up and sits back on the covers, breathing heavily, and droplets of sweat are dripping off his black locks like tears. Silently, he goes to the bathroom and takes a shower to cool down, unable to ignore the brands of shampoo he knows that John Watson would have used. Dripping, he steps out of the bath and convinces himself that he shivering out of coldness rather than fear.

_John. John. John. That's such a dull name. Stupid name. Why's he giving me such grief? He's like Anderson. He won't stop. And I don't think he'll ever stop. _The man shouting in his head raises his voice. _Stop it! If you ever liked me in any way, John Watson, you will stop right now… Stop it… Stop it…_

"SHUT UP!"

At once, the voice silences. Sherlock lies helplessly on the bath mat, in a foetal position, as naked as a newborn. The stillness all around booms out loudly. For the first time in days, Sherlock cannot hear a sound. The minutes pass unobserved as he stays motionless on the floor, unable to think coherently, only able to hear the strange hush quivering in the dry air.

Silence. Silence.

And then the voice in his mind tentatively starts up again, wanting to remind him of its presence. But it doesn't shout. Instead, it whispers delicately, words that Sherlock is unable to make out. But he knows that the voice is no longer angry. It is soothing him. And he feels strangely comforted. _Maybe_, he thinks, _I'm becoming schizophrenic._ But he doesn't mind, because right now, he just lies there and listens to the voice, knowing that this sound was once the one that he heard and responded to every day.

He wishes, achingly, that he could remember.


	7. Mrs Hudson's Album

_**Chapter Seven  
**__Mrs Hudson's Album_

-.-

The following morning, Sherlock trundles to the kitchen and makes himself some toast. He had not been able to sleep in the aftermath of the previous night, and now he feels tired and has a headache. Groggily, he spreads the jam onto the bread – bread that has been allowed to char at the edges – and takes a casual bite.

The taste of strawberry jam nearly overpowers his senses. He throws the toast back onto the plate and swallows hard.

Emotions.

He can feel them bubbling up inside him.

_God. Am I going to react to everything this way?_

At that moment, his long-suffering landlady walks in gingerly. She looks pale, and it takes Sherlock a while to register the fact that she is still grieving over Dr Watson's death.

"Sherlock? Are you alright dear?"

"Of course I am." He replies, trying to sound indifferent.

"Only, I heard you last night –"

"It was just a nightmare." Silence falls. Sherlock can tell Mrs Hudson is trying hard not to cry. "Could you… Could you tell me more about John?" He asks. This appears to help her cope, for she brightens and walks out of the room, returning moments later with a thick book.

"I have your photo album right here." She announces. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, surprised that such an item existed.

"Could you tell me how you came to know him?" He asks, grabbing the book.

"Oh, yes. I remember it clearly. You did that favour for me, remember, and so I gave you a special offer on the flat. You told me that you'd come back to me when you found someone to share rooms with and then you returned three days later with John. He was wonderful, you know. Really nice, didn't want harm to come to people. But he was always eager to help you with your cases. I remember when I first saw him, with his cane – he had a cane, dear, but it turned out to be psychosomatic – and I first saw him and I thought to myself 'he's more the sitting down type'. Turns out I was wrong about that! But he was good for you, Sherlock. He was good for us all…" She trails off, on the verge of tears.

Sherlock, while she speaks, flicks through the pages. This is John Watson. He looks happy, full of life, grinning at the camera. In some of the pictures he pulls funny faces. In most of them, Sherlock is by his side.

The detective frowns, focusing on himself more than his elusive flatmate. In these photos… he is actually smiling. The laughter, caught in the crystal clear images, is genuine. In some, he is staring at John. _Fondly_. And in others, John is mirroring that emotion as he looks up at his friend. _He's so short. _He realises. Then, _He _was _so short_.

One photo in particular catches his eye and his gaze rests on it, shocked. Mrs Hudson looks over his shoulder and laughs brokenly, unable to hide her sorrow.

"That was a lovely picture. Of course, you were both completely drunk at the time. I thought that I'd better not show it to you afterwards, the next day, because you had completely forgotten about it."

Sherlock can tell from the angle of the camera that his landlady had taken the picture that she had kept her distance, not wanting to intrude. He sees from the image that he and Dr Watson are completely plastered – he can almost smell the alcohol. However, it is more their actions that cause Sherlock to stare at it for so long. Painfully drunk, without a care in the world, he is pressing Dr Watson against the wall, hands on the man's shoulders, John's hands resting on his waist, and they are kissing hard.

"I took that about two weeks ago. You were very drunk." Mrs Hudson continues. "I wouldn't think much of it, to be honest. I mean, I always thought that maybe… but I don't know if you were like that. I asked, when I first saw you, if you would need two bedrooms – and you never shared one, not to my knowledge."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You've been very informative." Sherlock mumbles.

He takes closes the book and picks it up, retiring into his room without another word.

**I thought maybe it was time to introduce a bit of Johnlock. Thanks for reading so far - reviews are appreciated!**


	8. A Pressing Case

_**Chapter Eight  
**__A Pressing Case_

-.-

The room is dark, the curtains drawn. Click. Click. Click. Sherlock lies idly on his bed, browsing the internet, searching John Watson. Click. Click. Click. He finds a blog and reads through the cases meticulously, unable to believe that he would ever allow someone to put up such romanticised versions of his exploits. Click. Click. Click. It occurs to him that this blogger of his certainly had a lot to say about his unruly flatmate. It also occurs to him that John Watson barely mentioned himself at all. Everything is Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

_Who was he_? He ponders for the umpteenth time. _It looks like he was obsessed with me, going by what he's writing._ He glances at a post entitled 'His Return'. As he reads, he can tell that this was a man who actually cared about him. Sherlock blinks, taken aback. Not many people have openly admitted to caring about him before. _And I must have cared about him too…_

He remembers that picture. _We may have been drunk, but surely getting drunk and acting that way entails prior feelings._ Someone had once told him that drinking helped you act as you would if you were not restrained by your conscience. Sherlock barely has a conscience and yet, even now, he can never imagine willingly kissing somebody with such obvious passion.

Click. Click. Click.

There is a knock on his door and Lestrade enters without waiting for him to answer. He is slightly out of breath and has been wearing the same clothes for at least three days.

"Lestrade." Sherlock says curtly. "You've got an urgent case for me?"

"We've managed to track down John's killer." Sherlock looks blank. "The assassin you were after, remember? Well, we know where he's heading. In a couple of hours we can close in on him."

"And you're telling me this because…"

"Because…" Lestrade wavers. "Because I thought you'd like a spot of revenge. For what he did to… to John." He saddens as he broaches the topic, but there is fire in his eyes as he speaks.

"Where?"

"The place near that alleyway. Off Trafalgar Square. Will you come?"

"Now? Alright." Anything that might trigger a memory is worth his time. And where better to return than the scene of the crime?

"Sherlock, dear, your lunch is ready."

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock calls to her as he follows the detective inspector. "This takes priority."

"You need to eat, young man!"

He knows that she is worried about him. However, he shouts back casually as he leaves: "You're not my mother!", and closes the front door behind him.

Lestrade takes the wheel. "You might have offended her, you know." Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly as they drive off. He wants to ask Lestrade more questions, but something holds him back. The DI looks upset and his passenger can't bring himself to trouble him further. That move, Sherlock realises, is decidedly out of character. Since when does he take other people's feelings into account? Maybe it's this John Watson, still whispering incoherently in his head. Why would he ever listen to somebody else's opinion though?

He is still battling to answer this conundrum when they pull up and get out of the car. Stepping out onto the pavement, Sherlock heads straight towards the alley, but Lestrade grabs his arm and stops him.

"Mate, we can't go there yet. We have to wait for him, remember? We have people surrounding the area and we can't get too close or he'll realise it's us."

"Oh. Of – Of course." Sherlock stutters. He has been so intent on the location that he has neglected the actual reason they are here. "Right. Where do we position ourselves then?"

Lestrade leads him to a warehouse and they are greeted by two plain clad policemen at the door. The senior man flicks an ID and they walk into a gigantic storage room, riddled with rows of boxes, piled so high that it is impossible to see what is behind them.

"We wait here." Lestrade informs in hushed tones. "When we get the signal – a whistle – we run out of the exit over _there_. Got it?" Sherlock nods and they crouch behind an empty crate, waiting.

Ten minutes pass in absolute silence. Lestrade is fidgeting impatiently next to him, gun in hand. His breathing has quickened and his teeth are gritted. For him, this is a personal revenge. All he wants to do is catch the killer and punch him over and over for the crimes he's done. Sherlock is thinking similar thoughts – this is the person who killed someone important to him. Even in his state of not-remembering, he wants justice.

Then, far from the shrill blow of a whistle both men expect to hear, a young police officer rushes over, walkie-talkie in hand. "Sir… he's not here. He's gone to – to a house in Baker Street… 221B…"

Sherlock looks at Lestrade in horror. In a terrified whisper, he conveys the one name on his mind.

"Mrs Hudson."

**Things are about to get a whole lot worse.**


	9. History Repeating

_**Chapter Nine  
**__History Repeating_

-.-

**Some swearing in this chapter (I watch way too much Supernatural currently).. Please don't kill me for what I've written... Sherlock is kind of OOC too. This is how I imagine him to act, thanks to my warped imagination.**

The sirens wail as police cars swiftly transport them back to 221B. Sherlock can only hope that Mrs Hudson is still alive. _I made a foolish error… I shouldn't have left the flat… not without thinking first… _Lestrade can clearly sense his distress because he speaks for pretty much the whole journey, attempting to reassure his friend.

"This maniac has nothing against Mrs Hudson. There's no way he's going to waste any bullets on her… I mean, he can't afford it. We've frozen all of his contacts; he's not getting any more ammunition. As far as we can tell, he only has four bullets left… Nah, he won't hurt her…" Sherlock wants to believe him and loosen the tight knot of worry in him. Except he can't. If anything has happened to his landlady, he will… he will… _What would I do? _He thinks, startled. _How would I feel? How would I cope? Would I delete her too?_

The police car skids to a controlled halt and they rush out: Sherlock, Lestrade and a dozen police officers, many wearing bulletproof vests and holding their guns up. The front door is wide open. Sherlock charges in first but it is too late. He has one foot in the corridor, when he hears a single gunshot. The sound chills him and for a second, he freezes, rooted to the spot. Then…

"NO!" He yells. "NO, NO, NO!" He races towards the sound and sees the assassin, standing over a body. "NO!" It is the only word he is capable of screaming out. Someone from the force has opened fire and the killer drops to the floor, groaning. And Sherlock is sinking to his knees, and his eyes never leave the only woman he will ever love who is… she is… _No. _"Mrs… Mrs Hudson…"

He sees the blood spilling from his landlady's chest, seeping through her floral dress. And Mrs Hudson's eyes are open and unseeing and she isn't moving or breathing or…

Sherlock staggers back up. The rest of the force are making their way over but he doesn't acknowledge their existence. His sole attention is now on the murderer at his feet, who is clutching his side in evident agony. The detective wastes no time. Savagely, he kicks and punches the man over and over again, screaming. Blood is everywhere, on his hands, clothes, as he rains down blows with as much force as he can muster.

"YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! HOW COULD YOU KILL HER?! SHE MEANT SO MUCH! AND BEFORE! THEY WERE MY FRIENDS! AND JOHN WATSON WAS MY BEST FRIEND AND NOW I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHO HE WAS!" He smashes the man against the ground and there is a sob of pain. Sherlock sees nothing but red. He is still screaming as the police officers tear him away and restrain him. He pulls against them, wanting nothing more than to slit the assassin's throat. He bellows at the top of his lungs, unable to control himself, centring his anger more on what has been done to John Watson than Mrs Hudson. "HE MUST HAVE MEANT SO MUCH TO ME! AND YOU KILLED HIM! JUST YOU WAIT TILL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU! I'M GOING TO TORTURE YOU SO SLOWLY THAT YOU'D RATHER DIE, YOU BASTARD! YOU SON OF A BITCH –" The recipient of his outrage is being slowly handcuffed and dragged away, but Sherlock catches a glimpse of his face as he turns to go. He is smirking. IT'S NOT A JOKE! NO! NO! LET ME GO! I NEED TO – LET ME GO!" His struggles are futile, and his voice is hoarse. His legs buckle and he collapses into Lestrade, defeated. "No… No he c-can't… He just…"

And then he remembers that this is _Mrs Hudson_, brutally killed, her bruised and battered body the only thing left for him to see.

"_Your only two friends in the world will die if you don't." _That's what Moriarty had told him. At least, that's what he can recollect. Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson.

And Mrs Hudson is dead.


End file.
